The 3-Inch Tall John Watson
by Tsuki the Wolf
Summary: The tale of the tiny warrior John Watson on a mission in the human world that becomes complicated when he meets the (6-foot tall) human Sherlock Holmes as well as the relationship between the two. Eventual Sherlock/John. Slash. AU with parallel worlds. Rated T mostly for the cursing and blood.
1. The First Meeting

If a person wanted to know John's exact measurement he would rudely state that he was average height. However this is an amusing concept to anyone besides John considering his actual height is only 0.91 ACH (or, in a human's terms of measurement, about 8 cm). Even to his own people John was a little on the short side (but don't tell him that lest you want a knife shoved up your bum). He was very sensitive about his height and because he was a little on the short side for the average male of his people he had to work hard to prove his self fit for the job he had. After all, only the strongest and the bravest of his people could possibly go out into Giant's Land (or just the human world for a less silly title).

If one wanted to know what John was exactly, he'd tell them it was none of their damn business. His people were a secret race living parallel but hidden to the human world and he intended to keep it that way. It wouldn't do to have such giant people finally discover the way to travel between parallel worlds (as John's people had and made use of) and possibly decide to destroy their land. No, the world John came from needed to stay unknown of by the humans lest they try to search for a way into their world. The creatures the size of John was very vulnerable to the sizes of the humans. Even the smallest humans towered far above the tiny creatures that were John's kind.

John's people slipped into the human world for one purpose and one purpose only –to gather rare supplies. The supplies always varied depending on what was needed. Certain materials were not available in John's world that was rather easy to find in the humans' world. Such materials were valuable because of this and the job of collecting these supplies was one that required quite a bit from the worker. These people slipped through into the human world to hunt down these supplies and bring them back to their own world. John was a collector in this job however they were dubbed "warriors". The job itself was available only to the strongest and bravest of John's people. After all these brave warriors were braving an unknown world much, _much_ bigger than the one they were used to and fraught with dangers that they couldn't even imagine. Every trip made back alive was like a medal awarded on their chest.

It was John's first trip to the human world and he was stunned by the sheer size of absolutely everything. His glance upward displayed to him trees much higher than some of the tallest mountains in John's land. The material, though, was not anything like a tree. His mind mentally connected the word to "building" and recalled how humans lived in these places. Considering he was between two of these buildings he quickly understood he was in an alleyway. Far above him he saw streaks of blue and pink and yellow and fluffy white and allowed himself marvel at them all. This was the human world's sky. It was far more beautiful than John's rather murky world. Everything felt alien but thrilling to him. He could hear roaring and felt the ground (not grass, that he could tell, but some type of stone) rumbling. His mind connected to him that these were the fast beasts that humans had tamed. They tended to travel on clear pathways that John knew he had to be very careful when crossing. More than one of his brethren had been killed in these trips and if it wasn't one of this world's creatures killing them it was the monsters on those pathways. He would need to jump rapidly to get across.

He snapped quickly back to attention to where he was and his goal. It was terrifying and thrilling to be finally on the job and see this world but he had a mission. He didn't want to linger for too long if he could help it. He quickly checked his body to make sure he had everything. On his back was a satchel of animal skin containing within it necessary food supplies and medical supplies needed for the trip as well as an extra sack to carry the hunted materials back with him. Strapped onto his belt was his sword (it was half the size of him but very light for its strength. He didn't believe humans had the material in the world; as far as he knew it could slice through any type of material with enough strength and not break) on his one side and his dagger on another. The dagger's blade was long enough to support his weight and was also made of the same material as his sword. Carefully hidden in the back of his pants was his gun. Such a small person could not defend themselves properly against giants without a long-range weapon.

Glad that he had everything in order he turned his attention to the item next to him. Banging on it a couple of times with his hand informed him that this was a metal container but certainly not the material he was looking for. From his sight on the ground, though, he could not search properly. He would need to climb this large and frankly disgusting-smelling metal something. He backed up a number of steps and pulled out his dagger –wrapping the thick rope it had on its hilt skillfully around his wrist at the same time- before he ran and launched his self into the air towards the metal container. He flew far up into the air –at least the height of several of John's kind and the height of two of John's houses stacked on top of each other- before he stabbed his dagger into the metal. He needed to get farther up so using the momentum he had he spun once around the dagger and flew feet first further into the air ripping his dagger out of the metal at the same time. He flew up farther than the top of the container and noticed it had a lid. Thankful for this he threw the dagger down to stab into the lid and stopped his momentum by yanking the rope. The dagger came out but allowed John to be yanked downward and flip once before landing lightly on his feet on top of the lid. He caught the hilt of his dagger as they passed near each other on his way down and slid it back into its sheath.

Adrenaline pumped through his veins at the end of the endeavor and he found himself grinning widely as his heart pounded in his chest. The thrill of momentum and using it to get around never became tedious or boring. More often than not John had been scolded for doing it off of their training base as a faster way to get around in their world. The pride in knowing that John's body was capable of doing such acrobatics and jumps was enough to make him giddy. For the first time in a while his hands didn't shake from the tedium that was a near-constant in his life. One trained hard to go on missions and always he had been held back because of his size –hence his anger- but now was his chance to prove himself.

He cleared his mind of his giddiness and focused again. He knew his targeted material was in a human store so he needed to locate one as soon as possible. That would mean avoiding humans (but really that was to be expected considering how humans practically _infested_ this world) but John was up for the task. Now on a higher vantage point he looked around and saw the pathway ("_road"_ he remembered his superiors saying the humans called it) the monstrous creatures travelled on. He frowned not wanting to go that way and glanced in the opposite direction. There seemed to be more alleyway heading off and to the right. He would go in that direction then and take the safer route. Humans didn't often traverse alleyways and there was no risk of a Monster coming down there (far too small for the Monsters). He took a few steps back and was ready to launch himself over to the nearest box when he heard heavy footsteps rushing in his direction. His eyes widened a bit and in that moment a fear struck him. He needed to move but he didn't know where he could hide.

_I'm small._ He reminded himself, _I can duck down and probably go unnoticed._ Humans, he knew, always missed the most important tiny things. He had often been advised that if there was no place to hide then to make yourself as small as possible to avoid the fallible human eyes. _Humans_, he had once been told, _do not use their senses like we do. We feel the world and use it to help us survive. Humans only see and ignore what they feel._

John crouched down on top of the lid he was on then when he spotted his first human. He could tell immediately that this human was a male (John's people and humans looked alike in terms of physical apparatuses but John's people were miniature) and was distressed. He was running away from something. The air was knocked out of John's lungs to see someone so massive. He had always known that he was tiny compared to humans but this man was hardly anything more than a mountain of a person. John could see that he wasn't even the size of this man's ear. One glance at that man's feet sobered John up to the reality that he had every chance to die and reaffirmed just how dangerous this job was.

(Still, he couldn't help the twinge of sheer joy at being faced with such a volatile career. It was certainly better than any job in his world.)

The human male was just rushing past John's place without noticing him when John saw what was chasing the man. It was another human male but this one looked distinctly different from the first. The air was once again stolen from his lungs (the shock of these humans, he felt, would never fade away; perhaps he unconsciously thought they would all look alike?). This male had longer legs than the first male and seemed determined to catch him. A thrill (not unlike the one John was far too familiar with) was gleaming in the depths of those curious eyes. John tried to make himself appear smaller as this second male began to pass by when the man suddenly stopped. John held his breath and watched him carefully. Almost instinctively his hand went to his gun. He would need it if he was to fight a human.

_Don't look this way._ John told the human mentally and hoped it would work. As if the human actually heard his thoughts bright blue eyes met his own. _Shit._ John growled and decided to stand. There was no point in pretending the human didn't see him when he clearly wasn't invisible. Suddenly this vantage point on top of this metal lid seemed like a terrible idea. He cursed the fact that he had been here for only a few clekars (minutes, if recalled that humans measured time in) and already he was screwing up. John stared the human down daring him to do something. His hand was firmly placed on his gun. It wasn't the first time that a human has met one of John's kind but more often than not the story was the same: The human would approach the person, try to capture them for selfish purposes (something about wishes, he believed some claimed), and would often fail. The number of John's kind that had been caught have not been counted (there was no way of knowing what happened to them). He expected this human to go after him right away (in which case John would shoot him in the head because frankly John was the best damn shot in his job and he _never _missed from this distance) but the human didn't move. His face was surprised to see John standing there but it seemed to sense John was hostile (even though John kept his face carefully serious but not angry).

After a short clekar of the two of them staring and not blinking the human finally shifted his body to face towards John. John didn't move. Apparently the chase of the first human had been given up. This human blinked a few slow times before he cautiously approached. John's eyes narrowed but he didn't move to expose his gun yet. He kept his eye trained carefully on the face of the human (he had brown nearly black curly hair and fine dark eyebrows with strangely-shaped eyes, John noticed) but also paid very close attention to the human's hands. Neither of them said anything for a longer period of time after this movement until,

"Interesting." John's body stiffened slightly at the deep baritone voice of the human. He certainly hadn't been expecting that and he nearly flinched as the deep sound waves hit his ears. His kind's ears were very sensitive to noise but even more so towards deeper and higher frequencies. He could feel the metal beneath his feet vibrate a little with the voice allowing his ears to blank out a portion of it. He decided it may be easier on him if he closed off his senses to his ears and focused a bit more on his sense to touch but decided it would be very stupid. His full concentration would need to be on this man in front of him. He could risk a bit of a headache.

The human's lips pulled upward a bit in fascination before he slowly approached John. John took a step backwards and pulled his gun finally. He pointed it right between the man's eyes and narrowed his own eyes warningly. The human paused but didn't seem too phased by the weapon. John's mind flew through the human languages that he had been taught and tried to comprehend which one this human had spoken. He only knew a limited amount of Human so he tried a phrase, "_Aufenthalt zurück oder ich schieße!"_ The human raised an eyebrow. A no-go, then. He would have to try another. "_Отойди, или я буду стрелять!"_

This time the human did speak, "It would be much easier to communicate with me using English. My foreign language skills are not exactly polished upon recently." John shuddered a little as he felt every word vibrate through the metal and into his own body. He could feel the words internally. It wasn't very pleasant.

"Stay back or I'll shoot!" John shouted finally in (what he now knew was) English. The man seemed impressed and listened but leaned forward a little to get a better look. John turned off the safety on his weapon.

"Oh, dull. Violence already. Must you?" The human asked. John frowned in confusion.

"It's called self-defense."

"Clearly." His strange eyes roamed John's form and John had the strangest thought that this man was reading him like a book. This, too, was an unpleasant feeling. After a couple of breaths the man moved forward again and John fired at a spot close to the man's ear. The wall behind the human exploded with a gunshot the size of which could easily kill a human. The recoil on his weapon hurt John's shoulders a bit but he stood his ground mustering the strength in his legs to hold him there.

"I won't miss again." John warned his tone dangerous. He would not allow this human to come any closer. He expected him to flee now (any human facing death would rationally flee) but this human only blinked in astonishment before a broad grin broke across his face.

"Fascinating." John was taken aback and suddenly his gun was snapped right out of his hands. He gasped and instantly his sword was out now that his defense had been breached. His training immediately kicked in and he sliced at the hand not holding the gun that was closest to him. The human hissed a bit and his hand closed around John's blade leaving John dangling far _far_ (dizzyingly far) above the ground. Realizing two of his weapons had been lost he flipped off of his sword and landed haphazardly onto the lid once again and pulled out his dagger. His dagger wasn't meant to be used as a weapon (its slightly curved edge was used for hooking into items not slicing apart enemies) but it was still a blade and John could not leave without his weapons. The human seemed displeased at the blood running from the rather deep incision in his hand and put John's sword into his other hand (with the gun). Those blue eyes narrowed at him before John propelled himself into the air to go for that hand. The human was swift though and grabbed John from midair, capturing him but not smothering him into the palm. John still gasped and found his arms pinned to his body. He couldn't move. His legs dangled in air.

_I'm going to die already. Please, Almighty, let me live._ He thought hopelessly and wiggled relentlessly in hopes of escaping this human's hand. The grip didn't flinch.

"Will you _stop_?" He heard the human's baritone voice say. He didn't open his palm. John could feel blood against his back seeping and warm. He could see it entering his peripheral vision. "I'm not trying to attack you." John stiffened in fear as he felt himself being moved before his feet found metal after a moment the hand released him and snatched his final blade from his hand. John's eyes widened to see the miffed expression of the human in front of him. He could barely believe how defenseless he felt. The human examined John's weapons for a moment before the fist closed and those strange eyes looked at him again. "Relax." He said and his voice was softer now. He was trying to placate John, the tiny man realized.

"What do you want?" John asked and suddenly his fear was gone. He was rather amazed by how easily his body and mind had accepted his fate (probably going to die but with just a dash of hope that this human would pity him and he would survive). There was a fine line between bravery and stupidity and John had the strongest feeling that he was walking it at that very moment.

"Nothing." The human replied and the human lowered himself down into a crouch. He was now at John's level (it made John feel a bit better but now his weapons were further down) and staring at him openly.

"I don't grant wishes, if that's what you're wondering." John found himself saying. The human looked a bit amused and mildly annoyed.

"I assumed so. I don't believe such lore." John wondered what kind of lore it was. "…What is your name?" John frowned at this question.

"What?"

"Your name." The human repeated and John could tell by the slight fluctuation in the sound waves that the man clearly didn't like to repeat himself.

_A __**very**__ fine line, John._ He reminded himself. "I…I don't know what you mean." He couldn't connect the word "name" to a word in his language. He couldn't comprehend.

The human considered momentarily. "Name. Something that you are called."

"A warrior." John answered immediately and with pride. He felt his chin lift and his jaw tightened.

The human took this in. "That's not what I mean. What do you call yourself?"

"A warrior."

"…" The human hesitated and then rearranged his sentence, "What is it that others call you that is specifically yours?"

John hesitated as well. He didn't fully understand but he slowly announced what it was others called him, "John Watson."

The human was pleased. "John."

"John Watson." John emphasized.

"My name is Sherlock Holmes." John began to grasp the meaning of the word "name".

"Sherlock Holmes, return my weapons!" He demanded.

"If I do, you'll attack me."

"I'll attack you either way." John promised. The words seemed to have the opposite of their intended threat and Sherlock Holmes grinned. He opened his mouth to say more when he heard footsteps and his head turned sharply in the direction they were coming from before crouching down in an effort to make himself smaller. Great, more humans were coming. Sherlock Holmes frowned at the movement as he didn't understand (did the human not hear the footsteps) and looked in that direction. He showed no indication that he heard anybody until after a few breaths and he stood. His body moved in front of John right after John spotted a figure turning the corner of the alley.

"Sherlock!" A new voice cried. It too was clearly male. John was hidden behind Sherlock Holmes's back and couldn't see. "Where'd the criminal go?"

"He's far away by now, Detective." Sherlock Holmes replied and John looked around his self to think of a plan. He could jump now and possibly land softly enough to not injure his legs but his medical training told him this wasn't a good idea without his dagger. He would need to get his weapons back.

"What do you mean!" Detective cried loudly. John flinched and moved silently across the metal lid to glance down towards the ground. Heights never really frightened him so he wasn't very nauseous to see exactly how far down the ground was. He saw Sherlock Holmes's hand that still contained his weapons and frowned. There would be no way of opening that fist without his notice. He then looked at the clothing the man wore. There was a long blue coat that John thought he could perhaps climb up. He could attack the human's face –hopefully shock him into dropping the weapons- but he would be noticed by the second human. The risk wouldn't be worth it. He didn't need two humans after him. John was, essentially, stuck where he was at.

"He escaped me." Sherlock Holmes said and there was a hint of annoyance in his tone.

Detective sighed. "Dammit, Sherlock." He muttered but he didn't sound very upset about it –only tired. John tilted his head slightly and continued to watch Sherlock Holmes's curly hair. Were Detective and Sherlock Holmes's close? They were referring to each other by their half call (would it be "half name" in human terms?). "Alright, I'll call it in. Where'd he go?"

"He's cutting through the alleys. He'll catch a cab somewhere to the outskirts of the city to hide out." Sherlock Holmes glanced over his shoulder subtly and John knew the human was checking to see he was still there. He turned back to Detective. John's nails dug into his hand in anger. If he had his weapons he would've been long gone by now. What Almighty decision led him to this situation on his first mission? His jaw clenched and he felt footsteps receding someplace before Sherlock Holmes turned back to him and crouched again down to eye-level. John's weapons were once again too far down.

"You say you don't want anything from me but you don't allow me to leave." John stated with cool anger. He noticed that Detective had left.

"What are you?" Sherlock Holmes ignored his comment much to John's agitation.

_Calm down._ John warned himself. _You lose focus when angry._ "None of your business!"

"Surely you're not a munchkin."

"I don't know what that is." He said with a frown. He gazed into Sherlock Holmes's eyes and felt unwillingly a little unguarded. Something in John's instinct told him this human honestly didn't want to hurt him. It wouldn't do to relax too much. People were killed for being too relaxed.

Sherlock Holmes shook his curly head. John watched with some fascination as curls half the size of him moved. "No, never mind. Why are you here?" John felt that the human was referring to the alleyway more so than the world itself. John didn't reply though. He had no need to tell of his mission and his demeanor must've given such attitude off. Sherlock Holmes was becoming impatient. John could see the slight changes in his facial muscles from his advantage."Well?" The human demanded.

"Why should I tell you? I have no reason to."

"Shall I deduce, then?"

"Deduce?"

"Tell me if I'm wrong: you're here on a mission of sorts judging by the pack on your back as well as the various weapons. You're loaded up in a way to help you in this mission but you yourself aren't quite sure what you're looking for." Sherlock Holmes began to talk quickly.

"How could you possibly know that?"

The human continued, "The stance you put yourself in as well as your haircut and muscle definition tells me that you're a person of highly trained skill. The name 'warrior' confirms this. Not many of your people –if there _are_ more- are trained like you are judging by the pride you exude. You're wary of humans but you aren't scared –quite a feat considering your stature- which shows great bravery. So warrior on a mission: you're here to find and capture something, clearly not another of your kind so an item of sorts."

John blinked and then stared. "That…was amazing." He breathed hoping that he used the right word. Sherlock Holmes looked surprised and glanced away for a moment before looking back.

"You really think so?"

"Yeah." John nodded mystified. Had this human really learned that much from John just from the way he held himself and looked? A small smile peeked onto Sherlock Holmes's lips. "What else do you know about me?" John asked. If he had one deadly fault it was his curiosity about humans. They were fascinating creatures and he had studied them as much as he could back in his world but now he was actually interacting with one. Were all humans like this?

"I know that English is not your first language but neither is German or Russian like you spoke earlier. You speak an entirely new language."

"How can you tell?"

"Because there is a slight hesitation before you speak every time. Your mind is translating what I'm saying into your language before you translate your response back." John nodded the confirmation. "As it is, this is the first time you're meeting someone of my kind let alone communicating with them. You're on guard and know what I can do but you're far too fascinated with me to be anything more than your first human. I would say that your live underground somewhere and have lived there for most of your life which explains why you haven't met anyone of my stature before but your skin is too healthy with sun. You've lived in open area which is almost impossible to maintain in this city let alone in this alleyway."

"Brilliant." John proclaimed and couldn't help the small smile on his face. Sherlock Holmes reciprocated it.

"Shall I help you with your search?" He asked and surprised John. His guard –which had fallen unknowingly- instantly went back up and he narrowed his eyes a bit.

"What would you get out of helping me?"

"I've happened across a tiny human-"

"No, don't do that." John interrupted.

Sherlock Holmes raised a dark eyebrow. "Do what?"

"Don't call me that. I'm not a human."

"What are you, then?" John glared at him. He was not going to reveal his people to this human. Sherlock Holmes gave a heavy sigh and rolled his eyes. "Fine then, _person_. Is that better?"

"Well enough."

"I've just happened across a tiny person. Had the situation been reversed would you want to give up the chance to talk to him?" John didn't respond. He didn't need to. "I thought not." A large hand came up over the lid and set down. John gazed at the blood that soaked the man's hand and saw the wound he had made was still flowing.

"You're bleeding." He stated. Sherlock Holmes's blue eyes considered the wound for a moment. He lifted the wound closer to his face and frowned a bit.

"You made quite a deep wound for such a tiny sword."

"I had a bit of a height disadvantage." Sherlock Holmes smirked amused before he pulled a cloth from his coat and tied it around the wound tightly to stem the flow. He then held the hand back out to John. John frowned but saw that his own clothes were already stained from their fight earlier and saw no reason against staining it a bit more. He was cautious but held himself in silent dignity as he stepped onto the palm. The flesh gave way a bit under his footing but John could feel the bone under his feet. The skin of his feet could pick up the minute ridges running around the human's hand and he felt a mixture of fear and excitement before he fully stood onto the hand. Sherlock Holmes waited until John had a good footing before the hand was lifted. John stumbled and caught hold onto the tip of one of the human's fingers. The finger curled to allow John the support he needed but still allow the tiny man to stay standing. He watched as he was raised higher than he had ever gone before without his weapons as Sherlock Holmes stood to his full height. John was once again glad he was born with a stomach for heights and turned his gaze up to the human. They both knew that John was trapped now. He would not be able to survive a plunge from this height.

"Do you mind if I put you in my pocket? You don't wish to be seen by others, correct?" Sherlock Holmes asked and John searched for whatever pocket the human was referring to. He spotted Sherlock Holmes's other hand slipping out of sight –_My weapons!_- before he glared up at that human's face.

"Where are you putting those? I need them."

"I'll return them." Sherlock Holmes promised and John felt that he would. He didn't believe this human to be a liar.

"Where are you taking me?"

"My flat. It would be much easier to discuss things with you if we were not out in the open for others to see."

"A pocket is fine." He said somewhat softly and tried to bite back his embarrassment at being carried like a toy. Sherlock Holmes carefully maneuvered his hand and brought John to a pocket in the man's coat. It looked somewhat deep but John knew that if he jumped he could see over the edge. He wouldn't be trapped. Confident in this, he slid down and into the cloth pocket. The inside of it was lined with a softer and more slippery material than the jacket itself had been made of. John immediately lost his footing and fell onto his bum. The shape of the pocket caused him to lay in a very loose U-shape. Sherlock Holmes glanced at him in the pocket (John glared at him daring him to say something) before he turned to face ahead wherever and they started moving.

John hoped that he was not going to his death.

* * *

**A/N: Well here we're going to have the tale of a 3-inch tall (roughly) John Watson. I saw a cute chibi of John and was inspired so I wanted to make something like this. Now I have three stories going on at once. OTL**

**This will be the story of various issues John has to deal with in the human world as well as his relationship with a human.**

**(Sorry about any google translate failures.)**

**Please review and if you have questions feel free to ask!**


	2. Confrontations

The rocking and somewhat flinging motion of the clothing he was in was making John feel sick. He didn't particularly like where he was and an angry acceptance had permeated his person. The pocket's mouth was often closed so John couldn't see out of it. What little he could see, though, was that the light was quickly fading. It must have been late when he had shown up. So those colours he had seen earlier streak across the sky when night was arriving. What would the night look like? He recalled the warning of dangerous creatures coming out in the nighttime. All of them had told him he needed to seek shelter –hidden within a tree or within a building was the best option- but here John was in the pocket of some bloke human who was apparently taking him to his home. He should be scared, some part of him screamed, but he couldn't really bring himself to. Perhaps his coworkers had been correct in saying he was a thrill-seeker (a term that equaled death-seeker) but John couldn't find himself to be overly scared of this man. He wasn't very scary.

John considered his life's choices.

He didn't dare doze off but when the movement of the coat came to a complete stop he found himself snapping out of his daydreaming. He hadn't realized just how distracted by his thoughts he had been but he didn't blame himself for it. There was only so much one could do inside of a pocket. He frowned and stood up before hopping and grabbing the lip of the pocket. With little effort he hauled himself up to pop his head out and gaze outside. He was startled by how drastically different his surroundings were. Gone were the vile scents of that alleyway and instead were replaced with the smell of wood and many other things John couldn't name. It would take him some time to clear out the scent of the coat as well as Sherlock Holmes's natural smell. This building was the human's he could tell. There were various items strewn about the room, from what he could see, but underneath all of the clutter John could make out the furniture. A small part of him was rather pleasantly surprised to know that humans had developed similar furniture to what John's people had. He had to admit the designs were a bit strange, though, and they seemed to have more a cloth look to them on the sitting furniture than John owned. The tables were wooden but he couldn't see anything else. There were rectangle-shaped items scattered around that didn't look like any material John had ever seen.

A hand appeared in John's vision just then and he realized that Sherlock Holmes was asking him to climb on. He glanced up to see the curly-haired man gazing at him before John nodded and dropped back into the pocket. He took a breath and found a good footing before he jumped up and out of the pocket. The material caused him to stumble and lose some of his height but he managed enough to land on the offered hand. Sherlock Holmes seemed impressed which made John feel a welling of pride. After he stood and steadied himself with a finger he was moved quickly through more rooms (he didn't get enough time to study them) and then into something to be dropped a tiny ways onto a soft bedding. With a start at the sudden change in texture he found himself in what appeared to be shedded wood. It was then he heard a click and looked up to see a transparent red door close in front of him. Horror dawned on him as he glanced around him and saw bars and realized that he had just been captured.

"Why have you put me in jail?" John yelled and threw himself at the bars to yank at them. They too were colourful and thick enough that John's hands couldn't quite wrap fully around them. They creaked a tiny bit under his strong pulling and kicking but they didn't budge. Sherlock Holmes looked down at him from above and through a similarly transparent roof to this building he was in. John found a type of ramp with edges on it for grip and dashed up it to glare heatedly at his captor. So much for trusting this human. He had made a rookie's mistake and now he would be trapped here.

"It's not a jail, actually." Sherlock Holmes corrected mildly and leaned on the surface John's jail was on to gaze down at him. John stretched to scratch at the roof (this too was a material he had never felt before nor knew the name of) but it didn't give way under him. "It's a hamster's cage. It's completely clean and sanitary, I assure you. The water is fresh as well."

"You bastard!" John screamed not knowing nor caring what a "hamster" was but knowing the word cage was related to animals. He was being kept like a pet! He couldn't wait to hurt this man and this time it would be a lot more than a cut on the hand. "I thought you said you were going to help me with my mission?"

"I plan on doing so however I'm currently in the middle of a case that was interrupted by you so I'll need to get back to you. As it is I can't have you running about everywhere and risk me stepping on you nor can I let you just escape. The case won't take too long so just be patient." Sherlock Holmes told him. The man then moved away from the cage. John didn't bother wasting his breath yelling after him. He was out of earshot by now.

Instead John kicked the metal bars again hard (they didn't give way) and winced only slightly at the pain when he put the foot back down. "Sick bastard." John muttered in English before his words reverted back to its natural language. Most of the words he spoke were not public knowledge and such a dirty mouth would not be accepted back into the kind public. He blamed his coworkers for the mouth he had developed but at that moment he was rather pleased to know them. He stopped talking after a bit and decided to explore his new home. Embarrassingly the cage was almost the size of his home back in his world. The floor he was standing on took up half of the cage and extended down into a type of home within the cage. There was a doorway next to the ramp on the ground floor. John turned around to find what appeared to be the water Sherlock Holmes had referred to. It was the size of a shallow bathtub to him and he knew it would reach up to his calves. There wasn't a toilet. He couldn't see a source of food. He would probably need to live off of what was in his pack unless…

He hopped down into the soft bedding that littered the bottom floor. He frowned and picked up a piece of it and felt it. It was very thin but stiff enough to keep its shape. John could effortlessly snap it in half. Sniffing it told him it was a material made of tree. Was it wood? He took a bite and chewed for a few breaths before he spat it out. It wasn't edible to him. It was definitely wood but it looked like shedded skin flakes. A horrible and fascinating thought occurred to him that begged the question: did the trees in the human world _shed_ their wood? He considered it as he stood up and walked into the little room that was below the upper platform and bath. There didn't appear to be any bedding in here but John could assume that he could sleep in there on the off chance he couldn't escape. The air held a hint of something bitter and animal-esque.

He exited the room and climbed back up the ramp to begin to strip of his clothing. They needed to be washed and even if he didn't have any kind of soap he couldn't go around smelling of blood. Who knew what kind of animals lurked around this human's building? He removed his belt first –upset at the empty sheaths on the sides- before he took off his pack. The next was his vest –dyed a dark red from the blood mixed in with the brown- and then his pants. He glared at the fact that the intricate design showing his job and skill was dyed from a light green to a forest green from the blood. He was glad that the material didn't hold stains. He tossed the vest and pants into the water before he began to unclip the two clips that held up his undergarments. It was a combination of a shirt and very short shorts connected together in a single suit that was loose on his muscled form. It was completely black and airy to allow for maximum movement. He pulled his arms from the sleeves and pushed it off his body before he tossed that as well into the water before climbing in after it.

He spent the next eight clekars scrubbing the blood out of the clothing –turning the water an ugly orange-brown- and rubbing his own body of the sweat. He glanced around as he did so and judging by his surroundings he was in a sleeping room of some sort. Not far from his cage there was a bed the size of a valley with white coverings and pillows. At least their people shared the common aspect of cloth on their beds to keep warm. It looked soft from his advantage. The room was surprisingly much cleaner than the first room John had seen before he had been moved. There was a bunch of those rectangular items he had seen before bound together and stacked repeatedly on wooden shelves diagonal to where John's cage was. He spotted some three types of metal devices (one short and by the opposite side of the bed, one near John's side of the bed on a wooden furniture, and the last a tall light and near the wooden shelf) providing light in the room and he wondered exactly what they were. Was it possible humans captured the stars and put them in their rooms? The thought terrified John and he climbed out of the tub to move to see where he was in the room. His cage was far above the ground where he saw what may have been brown grass (but he really couldn't tell from his height). He was on something wooden. Maybe another shelf or perhaps where Sherlock Holmes's clothing was held. The walls of the room were sea fish green and across the room he saw a window with trees. Outside was dark. Night must have fallen.

He pulled his clothing out of the water and wringed them of excess water (he was pleased to see the blood was gone) and hung them over the edge of the first floor. He didn't have any problems with baring himself with no others to be around to see his modesty. He had bigger issues to deal with and he couldn't be bothered to become sick due to wet clothing. It wasn't particularly cold in the room anyhow. He could feel heat coming from the star device (he nervously avoided looking at it). He hopped down to the ground floor and examined the door to his cage feeling it. Near the top he saw a strange latch but didn't know how it worked. It didn't look too strong and John wondered if he could break it. He jumped and caught onto it but it only bent down under his weight and he fell back to his feet. It snapped right back into place. That was a no-go, then, but he would keep an eye on it.

Suddenly the door across the room burst open and John jumped at the loud noise. Sherlock Holmes entered the room looking distracted. John took the opportunity to gather the wood sheddings to form a pile large enough to hide his bare form. Sherlock Holmes didn't look at him though and strode over to grab something from the wooden dresser John was located on top of and yanked open the door to the dresser. He pulled some strange item out of it and pulled off his coat. For a split moment John wondered if Sherlock Holmes was about to strip in front of him but the man did no such thing and instead tossed the jacket onto the bed with half of it dangling off. John eyed the clothing as Sherlock Holmes made to leave the room when he paused and turned back around to strode back up to John's cage. His sharp blue eyes drifted to John and then the clothing with a frown.

"You washed your clothes in the water bowl." He stated. Only John's head was exposed from his pile. He let Sherlock Holmes know exactly how angry he was by glaring.

"They were covered in your blood. I don't want to attract predators."

"I assure you I'm the only one who lives in this flat. I don't have pets."

"You could've fooled me." John shot the scathing remark and motioned to the cage.

"You're not my pet, John."

John was a bit surprised to hear that but he was still pretty angry. "How am I supposed to believe that when you put me in a _cage_?" He demanded. "And it's John _Watson_." He added.

Sherlock Holmes didn't respond. Instead he asked, "Are you hungry? I must leave the flat and I don't know when I'll return." John considered. He could possibly escape if the cage door was opened and he also didn't want to waste his supplies.

"What will you give me?" He asked.

"What can you eat?" Sherlock Holmes asked looking openly curious. His eyes sparkled with possible ideas.

"Anything you can." John told him. Sherlock nodded and exited the room. John used the moment to rush up to grab his undergarment –not bothering with the fact it was cold and still wet- and pulled it on quickly before he clipped it. He then jumped down to hide behind his pile again so as not to arouse suspicion. His muscles tensed as he watched the clutch of the door move down and the door open towards Sherlock Holmes. The human reached in with something in his fingers but John didn't stop to look at it as he charged and gripped the hand. It was the uninjured hand this time. Sherlock Holmes didn't seem surprised in the least and pulled John out of the cage with his hand after he dropped the food but brought him far too far up to have John even thinking of jumping. He was being held over Sherlock Holmes's head. The man then grabbed the back of his underclothes with his other hand and held him dangling. John gasped and grabbed onto the one of the fingers before flipping his body upwards to straddle the thumb but Sherlock Holmes didn't relinquish his clothing and at risk of choking himself John had to flop back down to dangle. His clothing would not rip easily enough to escape in time.

"Here." Sherlock Holmes said and carefully placed John back into the cage (he snapped the door shut before John could launch himself back through it) and pointed to the food he left. "I haven't made anything to eat and don't have the time. That should do for now." John said a few choice words in his own language in response to him before he checked his clothing. It was fine, thank Almighty, and John's throat and crotch hurt some from where it had been stretched tight over his form. He watched Sherlock Holmes one more time and met the human's eyes before the human turned and left the room without closing the door.

John sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. His escape plan had been a bust. Sherlock Holmes seemed to predict everything that John had planned. Did the man know how to read minds? Did they have the technology to do such impossible feats? Well if they've captured the stars then it was probable. He just wasn't efficient enough in his attacks without his weapons.

"My weapons!" John said in sudden realization. Where were they? He had no memory of ever seeing them removed from the other pocket of Sherlock Holmes's coat. His eyes zeroed in on the coat laying on the bed. John's suspicious nature whispered that this was on purpose. What reason would Sherlock Holmes have to leave the house without his travelling clothing? Was he taunting John with his weapons being so far away? Either way John needed to find a way out before Sherlock Holmes returned back to the room. He turned his attention to the door and recalled how the latch worked. He smiled a bit at the simplicity. Whatever a "hamster" was had to be an extremely stupid creature to not know how to escape.

John decided to give his clothes some more time to dry as he fleshed out his plan and made for the food that had been left behind by the human. It had a hard texture that crumbled at the touch. A sweet scent entered his nose and he picked up a piece to take a bite. He smiled at the taste and decided he rather liked it before he ate as much as he could handle knowing he would be performing momentum in a few clekars. He left the rest of the food and gripped the ramp leading up to the first floor. He took a breath and then lifted it up and pulled. Something loud snapped and he paused as he carried the (surprisingly light) ramp. He looked over towards the door but it was still empty. He listened carefully but couldn't hear any footsteps.

He walked over and leaned the ramp against the bars of the cage before he climbed up it. He balanced on one of the ridges and grabbed the bar with one hand to lean over. His hand found the latch and he pushed down on it before swiftly swinging his body around to slam the door backwards. He tumbled through it and managed to keep his hold on the latch of the door with one hand as his body half-dangled over the edge of the dresser. His heart beat even faster than its usual pace and he pulled himself up before jumping back through the doorway and into the cage. He grabbed his clothing and pulled it on and latched his belt and pack on before he jumped back out of his cage. He was free.

He wasted no time in searching for a way to get to the bed. The floor was much too far down and the closest protrusion from the wood of the dresser was too far to try to slip down to. He had to jump for it but he knew he wouldn't be able to make it all of the way onto the bed from where he was. His eyes drifted to the metal star container and he frowned deeply. He didn't want to get anywhere close to it but it was his only passage. He couldn't see the star because of some type of cover on it (cloth, he noticed. Humans must be fans of different cloth materials) that he could land on if he could catch the edge. He didn't like jumping such distances without his dagger as a plan B. Despite his misgivings he had no other option. He couldn't wait for Sherlock Holmes to return and trap him again.

He took a number of steps back and judged how much strength he would need so he wouldn't undershoot it or accidentally launch himself into the star. He said a silent prayer and ran forward and took a breath before his feet left the ground. The thrill of the jump rushed through his body as air whipped past him. He began his descent and his foot hit the edge of the cloth of the star blinder. He cried out as his eyes saw the star and his foot slipped on the taut and soft material. Only instinct alone had him catching the hardened edge of the cloth with his hand. He squeezed his eyes shut in pain as his mind screamed at the sight. He should've been prepared for it and he wished he could've shut off his vision at that moment to avoid this intense pain but knew that he needed to see to make the jump.

A new pain took over in his hand and he realized that it was starting to burn. His eyes snapped open and he ignored the spot in his eyes as he understood that the star was burning him with its proximity. He looked for a way out of this without losing his hand and knew he needed to climb. With an effort –his feet kept slipping on the wall of material- he threw himself up and flipped onto the edge of the starlight blinder. His feet and body immediately registered the heat and his skin pricked with sweat. He ran and launched himself onto the bed in desperation. He hit a pillow and sunk into it. He grappled at the material and pulled himself up and rolled out of it and onto the bed. The bed was stiff enough that it didn't sink under his weight but soft enough for John to lay on to catch his breath. His hand stung badly and he winced when he flexed it. It would not do for him to be this injured when he still had to escape. He pulled out a bottle from his bag and opened it up before he put a few drops of it on his hand. The skin tingled and he hissed as a new layer of skin formed where the other had been burnt off. The rest of his body hadn't been exposed long enough to really need treatment and he needed to save his medicine.

He closed his eyes for a bit so as to allow the black dots to clear completely from it. He frowned as he thought he heard something outside of the door. He tensed and listened past the blood rushing in his ears. He could hear murmuring and felt the vibrations bouncing off of the walls but they were in another portion of the building. Sherlock Holmes had told him he didn't keep pets but John didn't know if the man lived alone. He could have a life companion nearby. John would need to be careful and he kept his ears sharpened as he stood and made his way over to the coat. He stood on the material and felt along it liking how it felt. It wasn't very thick but it was thick enough to keep one warm. He would need to memorize it and report back to his superiors in order to mention how customers may want it. John would certainly pay money for it. He walked the length of the coat but couldn't find a pocket. So it was hanging over the edge. He peeked over the edge of the bed and spotted both pockets. John could see the glint of his sword edge in one and he smiled before he grabbed onto the material of the coat and began to climb down carefully (he would've jumped into it but he didn't need to be sliced up). Once he was in the pocket he gathered his weapons and cleaned his sword of Sherlock Holmes's blood before he sheathed both blades and put away his gun.

Finally feeling back together again John climbed out of the pocket and hopped the little drop down to the floor. He had been wrong in saying it was brown grass that he had seen on the floor. Instead it was like rough and short animal fur. He didn't particularly care for the feeling on his feet (it prickled a bit on his tiny feet) but it was easier to run across than actual grass. He spotted through the darkness that there were items underneath Sherlock Holmes's bed and decided he would need to go around. It would take longer but he couldn't risk what could be hidden in that darkness. It was easier to stay in the light. Mind set, he took a breath and made a dash around the bed. He felt glad to actually run around for the first time since he had left his world. He'd always enjoyed running as it allowed him freedom and gave him more control than momentum did. He laughed a bit as he spotted the door when he felt a presence. He turned around just in time for a beast to pounce on him.

He cried out as the beast wrapped paws around him and threw him up into the air. In the air John saw what he had only seen in books. It was a cat –striped and with eyes similar to Sherlock Holmes's shape- and he knew it was a dangerous predator. They liked to play with their food before they ate. John would give the beast something to play with and as the cat lifted onto its hind legs to grab John in midair the tiny man whipped out his dagger and stabbed it into the paw. The cat yowled and John flipped to the floor, yanking the dagger out with a pull of the rope he had wrapped around his hand. The cat hissed at him and its eyes narrowed. It's large ears flattened. The beast's head itself was bigger than John was. He swallowed and took a stance. He had an option of shooting the bastard creature but he had a limited number of bullets and his shoulders could only handle so much. His sword training had been specifically for this.

He tucked and rolled out of the way as the cat swiped and he put away his dagger to instead grab his sword. His eyes were narrowed and focused to wait for an opening. The cat was rushing him this time and John ran before jumping out of the way. The cat whipped around digging its claws into the ground and whipped John with its tail while he was in midair. John hit the ground and a claw stabbed through his leg. He screamed out at the tearing of his muscle and grabbed his dagger to slice cleanly through the claw. He pulled his leg in and yanked the claw out before stabbing the cat's far-too-close face. Blood splattered his hand and he took advantage of the cat's temporary shock to put away the dagger and hop onto the cat's head. He spotted a leather belt around the cat's throat that he hung onto as the cat shook it's head and thrashed about. John took a breath and a risk and hooked his good leg through the belt before he slid under the creature's head and sliced open its throat closing his eyes as he was suddenly drenched once again in blood. He resisted the urge to vomit and pushed himself away from the cat as it collapsed gurgling as the last of its life left.

John stared at the deceased creature and –even though it had tried to eat him- silently mourned it. Taking a life was frowned upon by his people no matter what the occasion. Death was only not punishable if it is for the sake of survival. Even though this was the case he still felt terrible at taking the life of the cat. He whispered to it in his native tongue a mourning poem as he stroked its soft fur. He continued to sit there when he remembered his own wound. He took off his vest to wrap around and tightened the large puncture wound. Half of his calf's muscle was dangling as the claw had been so large. Vibrations were felt in the flooring and John knew he had lost his chance to escape. He grabbed his medicine as the vibrations became strong enough to jar him. He clenched his jaw when he heard the footsteps come to a stop in the doorway. Sherlock Holmes had returned home.

John didn't face the human and reached into his bag to pull out his medicine. His leg had gone numb and he was extremely light-headed from blood loss. He probably looked a mess. He waited to be yelled at or attacked but frankly if he didn't heal himself now he was going to die anyway. Sherlock Holmes continued to surprise him though and got down on his hands and knees next to John and asked, "Are you alright?"

John looked up at him in dull shock as his hands fumbled with the lid of his medicine. "I will be." He told him and finally took the lid off the medicine with too much of a struggle. He was clumsy and his vision was blacking out on the edges. He cursed in his native language and took a couple of swigs of his bitter medicine –he shuddered at the red hot heat that flashed through his system causing his body to go into hyper mode to repair the red blood cells- and then dumped a good bit onto his leg after he uncovered it. He put his vest between his teeth and screamed as he bit down so hard his jaw hurt. He tasted blood but he didn't know whose it was. He saw Sherlock Holmes's eyes watching as the muscle and skin knitted itself back together. John barely kept himself sitting where he was as his body wanted to faint but there was another threat at hand.

Sherlock Holmes didn't say anything while John recovered and instead looked at the cat. He gently touched it and lifted its head to see the wounds John had inflicted and made a deep noise in his throat that John's sensitive ears picked up on. "Great. This is…good, I suppose." Sherlock said. He didn't particularly sound like he was pleased that the cat was dead and sounded more like he was praising John. He finally looked at the small man and their eyes met. John felt the remnants of heat from the medicine finish coursing through his system. He wouldn't be able to stand yet as tiny details and vessels healed within it. He would need to make sure it was well massaged when he got the chance.

John turned away from those probing eyes to look back at the cat. "What are you going to do with it? I don't like the idea of eating it." It had been a worthy foe but he really didn't want to think about eating such a large creature.

"Nor do I." Sherlock Holmes admitted before he stood and walked off. He came back moments later –John noticed the man was treading a bit lighter and mentally thanked him for it- and wrapped the cat in a large cloth. He gave John a smaller version of the rough material (that was still twice his size) which John made use of by wiping his skin clean. He would need to wash his clothing a second time. Sherlock Holmes left with the cat bundle while John slowly stood up and tested his newly healed leg. Pain still shot through him –his nerves were sending the wrong signals as they worked to heal- but it was bearable. Sherlock Holmes came back and got back down closer to John's level. John had to look straight up as the man towered over him and looked down. John was tempted to grab one of those hanging curls.

"No pets." John stated in disbelief glaring up at the human. He didn't feel cowed at all despite the human's overwhelming presence.

"It wasn't mine." Sherlock Holmes said as if that would call for forgiveness. "It was the upstairs neighbour's. She lets it wander. I had left the door to my flat open waiting for you."

"Waiting for me?" John asked with a frown.

"You got out and retrieved your weapons faster than the time I had estimated –quite brilliantly, actually- but when you didn't show up at the door I came to investigate."

"Was this some type of _challenge_?" John demanded. "What were you going to do when I arrived? Were you only going to put me back?"

"No, I wasn't. I wanted to test your skills to see how you survived in our world. It was breath-taking to watch. You can jump quite far."

"How did you watch?" He hadn't heard Sherlock Holmes whatsoever.

Sherlock pointed up to the shelf far above the angle John could see and said, "Camera." John waited for the word to process and recalled from his reading that cameras were items used by humans to record sights and sometimes sounds. He clenched his jaw hating that he had been tested. "At this angle I couldn't see you. I didn't expect to come in on this."

"I didn't expect to be attacked by a cat." John shot back.

"I'm sorry." Sherlock Holmes said softly and his eyes looked so honest that John felt the anger leave him. He held onto a bit of it in hopes of revenge later.

"Should I expect to be disappointed in terms of my mission as well or should I actually expect you to be useful?" John asked scathingly.

Sherlock Holmes smirked a tiny bit and held out his hand. "That depends on if you wish to come with me."

"Come with you where?" John asked.

"No doubt you've seen a lot of danger. Blood...death…life-threatening situations…"

"Of course. Just today alone has been too much. Far too much for normal people in my world to deal with let alone see."

Sherlock Holmes held out a hand. "Would you like to see more?" John looked at the offered hand. In just these past few (hours, he believed humans measured groups of minutes in) John had been captured by a human, caged, escaped, nearly lost his life to a cat, and still had not finished his mission. He was in a world so much bigger than his own with creatures inhabiting it that could easily step on him, eat him, or capture him to experiment on (he had heard horrid tales…) and right now he was in the middle of one of said creatures buildings. His weapons had been taken from him and then taken back and he'd already used up a bullet and an alarmingly large portion of his medicine –both of which he would need to go back to his world in order to refill on- and now this human was offering to take John Watson off to see even more death-defying situations. Only someone who wished for death would not turn their back now, finish their mission, and then live peacefully back in their own world.

But then again, John's peers had told him more than once that he was a thrill-seeker.

"Dear Almighty, yes." John breathed and stepped onto Sherlock Holmes's hand.

* * *

**A/N: Ha, I finished two in one day. I quite like how this whole chapter was, essentially, just John trying to escape a single room. It's kind of funny in retrospect but here's more into how John thinks and fights.**

**Review, please!**


	3. Information

Sherlock Holmes waited as John settled himself into the palm of the human's hand before he rose up. John's grip on the finger tightened at the movement feeling the pressure pushing him downwards as he moved up before the movement stopped. He looked at Sherlock Holmes and saw the man watching him. He expected to be put into a pocket of some kind as Sherlock moved through a different door than the entrance to the sleeping room. A light flared to life in the dark room and John clenched his sensitive eyes to the sudden transition. The room they had entered was…shiny, if John had to describe it. The flooring was covered in a type of stone and nearby there was a basin made of similar material. Gazing around him he thought that this room vaguely resembled where he would bathe in his own home. The design and colouring were quite different though. While his bathing room had more earthy tones to it –because of the natural resources they usually used to make their houses- human bathing rooms looked to be more of stone and white everywhere.

"What are we doing in here?" He asked and started violently when he saw a second Sherlock Holmes across the counter from him. He froze, stiffening, before his mind connected that this was a reflective surface. He could see his own fearful eyes before they relaxed in relief and a hint of annoyance. This was a big reflective surface, he noted. He didn't know how many minor heart attacks he was going to have while in this human world.

"Your clothing." Sherlock Holmes said and this time John couldn't bite back the cringe. The room was small and the deep sound waves reverberated and hit John's overly-responsive senses like waves of water. He had to cover his ears in some hope of saving his ears but he couldn't stop the hits to his skin. The movement didn't go unnoticed by Sherlock Holmes and the man lowered his voice distinctly so that it no longer echoed off of the walls. "My voice hurts your ears."

"Not just my ears." John said when he felt it safe to lower his hands.

"It didn't bother you as badly before."

"Your voice wasn't echoing then. I can usually deal with it." Sherlock Holmes made a noise in his throat before he lowered his hand down onto the countertop. John stepped off and glanced down into another basin. It wasn't nearly as large or as deep as the one across the room but it was big enough for John to swim in. Sherlock Holmes put something into the hole at the bottom and then screwed some metal knob before water began to pour into the basin. John decided for the sake of preservation he would cut off his hearing. Vibrations would do just fine.

As his mind stopped registering the information coming in from his ears his other senses picked up significantly. His eyesight sharpened and he felt his pupils contract even more as the bright room around him softened. The glare from the flooring and the stone material that the toilet, bathing tub, and basin next to him were made of diminished until it wasn't even there. His feet allowed him to not only make out the vibrations of the water but also the more subtle thick pounding of when John was sure was Sherlock Holmes's heart. He could hear the air rushing in and then out of him. He could taste the water flinging into the air as he opened his mouth and found that the water tasted differently from his own world's. He could smell metal and wrinkled his nose a bit. He could smell his own body odor. He contemplated shutting his olfactory sense off as well but decided against it.

"Is that enough?" He felt much deeper and yet more subtle vibrations reaching his skin and he shivered at how intimately the voice rushed over his body. They were softer than usual even with John's increased sensitivity but he understood it was from the whispering. His vocal chords weren't vibrating as much. It took him a moment to recover his thoughts –turning his mental processes towards his cognitive mind rather than his physical one- and John looked at Sherlock Holmes. He couldn't help his staring as he saw the delicate shine of light off of the pale skin. He wasn't used to seeing people with such light skin when his own people usually were in the sun.

He shook himself from his staring as he formed his response. "What?"

"The water in the sink." Sherlock Holmes clarified and turned off the rush of water anyway. John waited a few moments and then connected back to his hearing. His senses diminished and he sighed against the glare of lighting, squinting as his pupils expanded again. He basked in the fact the bathing room didn't stink any longer.

"It's fine." John said as he glanced down into the sink. He would need to slide down into the water but it was filled enough that he could stand in the water. He could feel from where he was that it was lukewarm. Sherlock Holmes stood there as John stared down into the sink as if waiting. John looked at him and snapped, "What?"

Sherlock Holmes raised an eyebrow. "You were covered with blood earlier but you washed it out. Your clothing isn't stained. I want to see your method."

"I'm not letting you see me naked." John stated. "And it was the material of the clothing, not my method, which got the blood out."

Sherlock Holmes sighed in exasperation before he glanced around. He reached into the large tub and pulled out a cloth similar to the one John used to wipe himself off with earlier. John took it from him –it was a bit heavy with the moisture of water and smelled of a soap John had scented earlier on Sherlock- and hauled it over to the wall. It was too large for him to wear so he pinned it to the wall with his sword and sliced off a piece –with just a bit of snagging- small enough for John to at least wrap around his waist and keep it there. "Interesting." Sherlock Holmes murmured and didn't seem bothered by the ruined cloth. John pushed the rest of the cloth back towards the human and the human ignored it. "The materials from where you come from and the materials in my…world," John stripped of his vest, backpack, and belt as he watched the human search for the right word, "are different."

"How do you figure?" John questioned as he pulled off his pants. He tossed the vest and pants down into the water before he decided to duck behind the ignored larger piece of cloth and strip out of Sherlock Holmes's angle of vision. Sherlock Holmes didn't seem to be looking his way anyway.

"The ease by which you cut the washcloth," Sherlock Holmes stated and pressed his hands together as he appeared to think, "and how easily you claim you can get blood out of your clothing. My blood should have stained with how long it had been on your clothing before you could clean them."

John secured his cut cloth around his waist before he took his undergarments and slid down into the sink of water. Already it was starting to turn orange as the cat's blood seeped off of the material. The water was up to John's chest causing him to wade (and even swim for a short moment in the deepest part of the sink) to grab his other clothing and begin to scrub at them. Sherlock Holmes loomed over the sink somewhat imposingly (John firmly ignored the prickling of his skin at the intense stare of those blue-grey eyes) and watched. "They're a warrior's uniform; of course blood needs to be able to come out of them." John stated. "Do they not have such a thing in this world?" He glanced up at Sherlock Holmes.

"It depends on how long the blood was on the clothing and the type of material as well as the saturation." Sherlock Holmes informed him. His hand descended into the basin and John flinched away from it ever aware of the plugged hole that could swallow him down in a whirlpool. He didn't think Sherlock Holmes would actually pull the plug but he could never be too careful. Sherlock Holmes did not disappoint him, "Can I feel?" He asked.

John handed him his vest –now clean- and watched as the thumb and forefinger pinched the clothing in between and ascend before he moved onto his pants to clean. Above him Sherlock Holmes brought the clothing to his face and ran his fingers over the material as he scanned it. After a moment he pulled out the same item John had seen him pull from the dresser and peered through the glass (John at least knew what _that_ human material was with as many times as his people had taken it) to study it more. The tiny man tossed his soaked pants to the side of the sink and watched in amusement as they stuck before he began scrubbing his undergarments.

Sherlock Holmes, he decided, was rather enigmatic. He didn't act like any humans John had been informed of or read about. Humans never noticed tiny details and usually they tried to experiment on John's people. He wasn't even receiving that many questions from the human (though gut instinct told him the questions would surely be coming). What's more the human had somehow relaxed John enough to convince him to willingly join the human wherever. John frowned down at his undergarments. Was there something severely wrong with him? Perhaps he should go to see another doctor soon. He knew as soon as he finished his mission he would need to see a psychiatrist either way (standard procedure in their job; many warriors came back permanently scarred physically and mentally by the human world) but it was only now that he really wondered if he would actually need it.

Sherlock Holmes placed the clothing somewhere on the counter and did the same with John's trousers. John glanced at him. "Well?" He prompted seeing the human's excitement.

"I've never seen clothing like it. I would like to look at it under a microscope-" John inferred from the word what it was and glared at him silently warning that he better not take his clothing, "-but I _suppose_ you need it more." Sherlock Holmes admittedly reluctantly and with a disgruntled tone.

"Unless you have tiny clothing just hanging in your closet." John said sarcastically.

"I could acquire some." Sherlock Holmes appeared thoughtful.

"I was joking!" John said and then waded out of the water. He fixed his wet towel skirt and leapt out of the basin with a little bit of slipping to land on the counter. He wringed out his clothing over the lip of the sink.

"John, what are you exactly?" Finally the human had asked what John had been waiting for.

"John _Watson_. My name is John _Watson,_ Sherlock Holmes." John corrected not liking how familiar the man was being with him.

"Why do you do that?"

"It's my name and I would prefer you to use it."

"But why your full name? And you may call me Sherlock. You don't need the 'Holmes'." John sputtered at the indignity of it and flushed.

"I can't do that!" He shouted. Sherlock Holmes gave him a curious look.

"You're blushing, John. Problem?"

John tried angrily to bite back the blush unsuccessfully. Why wasn't Sherlock Holmes embarrassed as well? Perhaps it was a cultural difference. "We are not close enough to use each other's half-call!" John asserted.

"Half-call…" Sherlock muttered before saying a bit louder, "So it has to do with manners and familiarity. Interesting." John noticed the man said that a lot. "But you did not answer my first question."

"What I am is none of your concern. I'm not human and that's all you should care about." John turned back to his clothing and considered putting them back on despite their wetness. It wasn't appealing to do it a second time. He would develop a chill at that rate. He noticed a large cup with some type of brush in it and decided to go hang the clothing over it.

"An alien, perhaps?" Sherlock Holmes suggested.

"I don't know what that is."

"Are you from another planet?" He clarified.

"No." He sighed as the clothing was hung up (with some jumping on his part) before he grabbed his belt and strapped it around his waist. It helped keep the thick cloth-skirt around him and now he was armed again. He attached his gun to a little loop in the belt that was used only when necessary (it wouldn't do to lose his gun while jumping, for example). "I'm from a world parallel to your own. That's why I look like your kind."

Sherlock Holmes's eyes lit up with attention and excitement. "Explain."

"Wasn't there a place you needed to go?" John asked as he remembered suddenly and partially because he didn't want to have to explain. Sherlock Holmes waved it off with indifference.

"It can wait. Explain."

John walked to the edge of the counter and sat down. Sherlock Holmes copied him and sat down at the edge of the large basin across the room from him. The bathing room was small enough that John would not need to yell for the human to hear him from that distance. He fidgeted with the hem of his skirt and wringed it for water. "My world is located right next to yours –parallel like the name says- and travels in time with yours. Every world is like that: all of them travel right next to each other without crossing. The worlds closest to yours have life that looks similar to yours. Hence this is why we have similar aspects to you."

"So you're saying the world on the other side of mine will be similar to this one but different."

John nodded. "The worlds take on similarities to ones on each side of it. It is similar to genetics that way."

"The further away from this world, the more different it is."

"Yes."

"And your people have learned to travel between them, then." Again John nodded. Sherlock Holmes put himself into that pensive position, leaning his elbows on his knees and pressing his hands to his chin. His eyes never strayed from John. "Why?"

"Because we could, at first." John said and grabbed the hem of his skirt to suck on it some. He was thirsty and the water –however different tasting it was- quenched his thirst. He gave a relieved sigh as he dropped it and noticed Sherlock Holmes's slightly annoyed look at the sucking. "Sorry." The human waved off the offence and nodded for him to continue. "But after we travelled through a number of worlds we decided it would be safest to stay closer to home." Sherlock Holmes looked like he wanted to ask why so John pushed on before he could, "Your world was the…easiest to access. It takes no effort to travel here if one knows how."

"You said your people travelled because they could at first." He emphasized the last two words. John was already getting tired of explaining. He was tired in general. The excitement of the day was getting to him a bit.

"We discovered resources here that are not in our own world. Priceless to us but rather under-appreciated to humans."

"Such as?"

"Even if I told you I doubt you would know the names." John admitted. He looked around to see if any such items in here would be something he would recognize and he got up. He walked over to a box he saw on the counter and hopped onto it. Inside were white sticks with furry heads. He felt the material and smiled as he recognized it. He yanked it off (it was stuck to the stick) and walked back over to where he had been sitting talking. "This is an example. We use it for some of our more expensive clothing." Sherlock Holmes reached forward and took it from him to roll in his fingers.

"Cotton?"

"Is that what you call it?" John noted the name.

"We use it for clothing as well but it is in most of our clothing. It is certainly not limited to more expensive pieces." He handed the cotton back and John took it and played with its fibers. It was the first time he had felt the material in its unprocessed state. He's only felt it in clothing before. It was soft and he felt warm just holding it. He could understand why it was prized. It was too bad it wasn't his mission item or he would take it home now.

"Only the wealthy own clothing made of 'cotton'." John told him.

"So you come to our world to hunt for materials for yourselves. You don't think to go for more expensive materials? Gold, for example." He reached into his pocket and pulled out what John saw was a ring. He placed it on the table for John.

"That's a metal, right? Price is rather relative in our world. Gold is useless to us. Shiny items aren't practical and gold is heavy." To prove his point he lifted the ring. It wasn't heavy in terms of what he was usually used to but for a material it was certainly too heavy. It was much too large to take back to his world. "Besides, your people prize gold more than you do cotton." Sherlock Homes took back the ring and pocketed it. John decided he would risk getting dressed despite the wetness. It would dry fast enough.

"So your people have warriors which you send into our world to risk their lives to hunt for materials that can be found only in this world for materialistic purposes." Sherlock Holmes concluded and stood up. John made sure he wasn't looking in his direction as he stripped and redressed. He shivered a bit in the damp clothing but ignored it. Sherlock Holmes looked at him again when he was done. "It's rather idiotic."

John felt defensive anger flare up in him. "And your people kill each other over ridiculous reasons such as greed and lust!"

Sherlock Holmes didn't even try to defend his people. "And yours do not?"

"Murder is frowned upon in our society. Nobody would risk it and the few who do end up finishing themselves off over the physical pain they feel." John growled.

He looked surprised and he held his hand out for John to step on. The tiny human did without hesitation, not even realizing it. "You feel physical pain over murder?"

"My people are deeply connected to the roots of our world. Each and every one of us is connected to each other. Just as when you cut the toe off of an animal so the rest of the body suffers. The one who commits the act feels the worse pain but we all suffer from it. We always know when one of our brethren has been killed unjustly." Sherlock Holmes carried John back into the bedroom to grab a different coat than the one he wore earlier from his closet and pulled it on. Instead of a midnight blue it was dark grey-black. As he pulled on one sleeve John jumped into his wounded palm so the other arm could be slid through the opposite sleeve.

"Your people are deeply religious, then." Sherlock Holmes found a pocket on the upper inside of his coat and held it open to John. John didn't particularly want to go in there but it was shallow so he jumped in. He was able to look over the edge and talk to Sherlock Holmes while being just a bit too pressed to his chest. He felt the th-thump of the human's heart pumping strongly. It shook John physically and it was a bit unnerving to feel and hear.

"There is a difference between 'religion' and one's lifestyle." John corrected. "Believe in whatever Almighty one may but the truth that we're connected to each other does not change." Sherlock Holmes moved through the flat quickly and John watched multiple rooms pass by. He approved of the darker tones of the cooking room and the sitting room before they were out the door and going downstairs. He was amazed by how much distance they were covering. Having long legs must be useful.

"Others may be offended by what you say, John." Sherlock Holmes said, amused.

"It's John _Watson_." John corrected, annoyed. His correction went ignored. John's mind became preoccupied as he saw one of the pathways the Monsters travelled for the first time. Like everything else it was made of stone but it had distinct markings in the middle of it. Lines cut the pathway in half and John instinctively flinched back away from the Monsters that roared by. Some sat lifeless near where Sherlock Holmes stood. They came in various sizes and shapes and colours and in the nighttime he saw their eyes glowed similar to the way the stars did in the sleeping room. "Dear Almighty, do you people rip the creatures' eyes out and replace them with stars?!" He cried.

Sherlock Holmes looked down at him in confusion before looking around for what he was referring to. "The cars, you mean?"

"Those Monsters!" John pointed at one of the sleeping things next to Sherlock Holmes.

"Vehicles. They are called cars, John. And they're not alive." Sherlock Holmes sounded amused.

"But they move." John objected, frowning.

"Automobiles. They're machines."

"Machines…" John murmured. His people had never thought about using automobiles despite the fact that they had the technology. They probably could make them but they didn't have the terrain to do so. Unlike human villages there was nature growing everywhere between dwellings. Automobiles would just become stuck. "I see. And the stars?"

"Not stars; lights. We use electricity."

"…Lightning?" John asked finding that as the closest word he could think of.

"Similar to that, yes." Sherlock Holmes lifted a hand and soon one of the Monsters (_cars_, John corrected his vocabulary. He would need to inform his people) stopped in front of him. Sherlock Holmes opened a door and John saw there were seats inside as well as another person. He relaxed as he saw that these cars really were just machines no matter how loud they were. Frankly the sound was terrifying. John bit back the urge to flee as Sherlock Holmes sat down in the car and shut the door. He said something to the second person sitting in front and John jerked as the car began moving with them in it.

"It's nice to know humans haven't captured the stars." John sighed more to himself than Sherlock Holmes. The human hummed with a small amused smile before he dug something out of his pants pocket. John watched as a thin rectangular item was placed to the human's ear before John asked, "What is that?"

"A mobile. It allows one to talk to others over distances."

John decided it wasn't worth learning all of the details of human technology. They would be asking each other questions all night, then. "Are you calling someone?"

"It would look rather silly if I was caught talking to myself in the backseat, John." Sherlock Holmes looked down at him. John imagined how it would look to others who did not know of his presence and he grinned.

"I suppose it _would_ look rather silly. Where are we going?"

"We're going to go capture that man you let get away."

"Me?" John asked. "You mean the human that you were chasing earlier?"

"Yes."

"It wasn't my fault he escaped!"

"You distracted me with your presence." Sherlock Holmes sniffed.

"I don't understand your logic." John said.

"That's because you're stupid." At the affronted look John sent him Sherlock Holmes continued, "No no, don't do that. Most people are." John wasn't sure if this made him feel better or not.

"And how do you know where that man went? What about Detective?"

"Detect-Oh, you mean Lestrade. No, his men are far too stupid. Probably still searching. No doubt the man had killed again by now with how desperate he is. I just need to wait for the call."

John waited for him to explain but realized the man didn't know all of his questions and so asked, "Who is 'Lestrade'? Is Detective Lestrade that man's name? And what do you mean by killed? You're after a murderer? What exactly is your job?"

Sherlock Holmes sucked his tongue for a moment before he answered, "No, that is not his name. You can call him Lestrade to help with your ethics. Don't ask obvious questions; I mean the man murdered someone and yes I'm after him. Based on what you've seen what do _you_ think I am, John?"

John watched him and saw he was being tested. "Considering you're chasing a murderer I would think you're with people control –police, I believe you humans call it- but you would've just said that. You're something else then. A detective like Lestrade then? I heard that detectives are private police that people hire –a stupid job if you ask me if your people's police are doing their jobs correctly."

Sherlock Holmes's face glowed with approval and John basked in it. "The police are indeed idiots but I'm not a detective. I'm a consulting detective. I invented the job. The police come to me for cases they can't solve –which is often. Lestrade isn't the type of detective you're thinking of; that's just a rank within the police."

"Amazing." John said and Sherlock Holmes preened at the praise. A small smile was on his face. John quite liked it when the human was smiling. He was easier to deal with.

"Thank you."

"So this man has killed again and you're going to go get him? If you're just for consulting, why are you going?"

"Oh so dull, John. Really."

"You just like the chase." John accused good-naturedly. He didn't bother correcting the man this time. It was getting him nowhere.

"And you're so different?" Sherlock Holmes asked with knowing eyes. John smirked before he looked out of the window. He watched stars –lights, he corrected- fly by with interest as he listened and felt Sherlock Holmes's heartbeat. The scent of the man's natural musk mixed in with the scent he had used to clean himself with lingered on his skin. John also smelled a thicker scent closer to the armpit but it wasn't unpleasant. He allowed himself to be lulled by the sensations before he was startled by a loud ringing. He cringed and covered his ears. It ended quickly enough and he felt as well as heard Sherlock Holmes's voice say, "Lestrade."

"There's been another one." John heard the mysterious Lestrade's voice and started as he realized the sound waves came from the device in Sherlock Holmes's hand. It really _did_ allow people to talk to each other over distances.

_Amazing._ John thought.

"Where?" Sherlock Holmes's asked and Lestrade responded with a name and number John didn't see the significance of. "I'll be there. Tell Anderson not to mess anything up." He pressed something on the phone and brought it down but didn't put it away. He told the driver of the car the place Lestrade just told him before he sat back.

"Why exactly have you brought me with you?" John asked. "What use would I have?"

Sherlock Holmes brought the mobile back up to his ear to keep pretending as he spoke. He looked glad that John had caught onto his detail. "Glad you asked. I need an assistant to talk to while I'm on a case and apparently a skull makes people give me funny looks."

John gave Sherlock Holmes a funny look. "You talk to a skull?"

"Old friend. And by friend I mean…" he didn't finish, "Anyway, yes I need someone who will talk back."

"We have a deal, though. You _will_ help me with my mission, right?"

"I will when you tell me what material you're looking for."

"I don't know what your people call it." John admitted. "All I know is that it is clear but has streaks of colour in it. It is round too, I believe. Smooth. Made of –what I believe is called- glass."

"Could be a number of things. Most likely a marble."

"I'm not looking for marble." John said.

"It's different than what you're thinking of." He fell silent and John did as well.

After a few minutes, "Do you realize just how unconventional you are, Sherlock Holmes?" Sherlock Holmes raised an eyebrow in question but didn't look at him. Instead he turned his head to look out of the window. "Usually your people would try to do something to me. You don't plan on…experimenting on me, will you?" He couldn't hide the timid fear in his voice at the question. He was a proud and strong warrior but the stories he had heard had been gruesome and psychologically terrifying. There was a very good reason for psychologists in the warrior career.

"No." Sherlock Holmes said with a soft tone in his voice. "I am a scientist but I would never experiment on you, John. You're more fascinating to talk to than to dissect."

John shuddered. "Thanks, I think."

"Does it happen often to your people?"

"I don't know the number but enough have escaped back into my world with horrid stories to terrify the rest of us."

"I can tell." Sherlock Holmes met his eyes. "I assure you I don't intend on harming you."

"That's a relief." John smiled and believed him. "Such an unconventional man, Sherlock Holmes."

"I'll take that as a compliment. I'm much different from the rest of humanity."

"I believe that." Sherlock Holmes's lips twitched with happiness at the comment but he firmly tried to hide it by looking away. The pleased aura radiated off of him in a way that John didn't miss. Within the next few minutes John saw red and blue lights flashing and they arrived at the crime scene.

* * *

**A/N: Naturally there would be a questioning period of Sherlock asking John questions. I hope my explanations of the parallel worlds make sense. Any questions can be asked in the reviews and I will respond to them. More information about John will be found out throughout the story but here's the basic stuff.**

**(Sorry that it's a bit shorter than the others)**

EDIT: Fuck, I made a major typo that I needed to fix. Sherlock wasn't going to hurt John! XD It just shows how late it is.

**Review, please!**


	4. The Work

The car stopped a short ways down the path from where John could see multiple lingering cars. They had a different pattern on them than any of the vehicles John had seen so far with their skin a vague yellow because of some lighting coming from a pole nearby. They had flashing red and blue lights blinking on and off in succession as a small hoard of people dispersed throughout the area. John blinked his eyes as his night-sharpened eyes caused him to wince at a particular beam of blue lighting into his eyes. He blinked rapidly to clear his vision and then noted the orange flat roping around the perimeter cutting off certain people from the scene. A few humans had handheld torches (although they had lights and not flames on the end) as they scanned around.

He frowned as he stared at all of the humans. Nervous spikes jolted around his muscles causing them to tense and his nerves to fire off adrenaline at the fear. His 'fight or flight' instinct had been triggered, he thought with some amusement. Never before had he seen so many humans and it worried him. He shouldn't be near so many potential killers. He knew that none of them would go after him as long as he was on Sherlock Holmes's form (he doubted the human would allow them to get that close to him) but if he was not in the pocket he could be trampled. He made out various details of the humans. Some had strangely shaped eyes that made them skinnier and almost slitted while others had wide and confused eyes. Some were in clothing similar to the clothing John had seen in books about humanity but others were dressed in long cloaks that looked far too informal to wear outside. Perhaps that was common human wear? He eyed the striped outfit of one man and pursed his lips in distaste. Many of the humans behind the rope were wearing matching uniforms. It was obvious to John that these people must be the police. His body trembled with repressed desire to grab the hilt of his sword.

He glanced upwards at Sherlock Holmes's face and saw the man looked rather apathetic. His eyes occasionally roamed in quick flickers about him but otherwise his destination stayed firm. None of the people from what John could see had the same type of hair as the consulting detective. He found himself temporarily distracted by their bouncing before his eyes found Sherlock Holmes's own on his. The slightest twitch of his eyebrow made John reassess himself and noticed he was leaning a bit too far out of the pocket. He was able to be easily seen against the starkness of Sherlock Holmes's white shirt. He ducked himself back down into the pocket as Sherlock Holmes approached the orange rope and a female.

"Hello, freak." The woman said. John tilted his head and wanted to look at the woman but she was at an angle that would cause John to expose himself. His lips dipped as his mind scanned quickly through the words of English he knew. Freak, he understood, was used to describe circumstances and creatures that were rather unusual in appearance or situation. While he agreed this term seemed to fit Sherlock Holmes it was the tone of her voice that made him hesitate. It was used as a compliment and it was rather offensive. This woman wasn't Sherlock Holmes's friend. Why was that? Sherlock Holmes helped them solve crimes? Then again the human _was_ rather…off-putting in his ways.

"Sergeant Donovan." Sherlock drawled and moved under the rope to the police's side. John thought these humans had rather odd names.

"What are you doing here?"

"I was invited."

There was a bit of a scoff in Sergeant Donovan's tone as she asked, "Who'd invite you?"

"Lestrade, obviously." Sherlock Holmes moved away from her before he paused and turned back to her, "You didn't make it home last night."

Sergeant Donovan didn't say anything and walked in front of Sherlock Holmes as she called into a device in her hand, "Bringing the freak in." John stared at the tight curls of the woman's hair as she passed by. Her skin was much darker (maybe she got a lot more sun than John?) in tone and her hair was black. Unlike Sherlock Holmes's curls, the woman's curls didn't look very soft or as bouncy. Still John was rather fascinated with them. What gene in humans brought about such hair?

_You're getting distracted_. John reprimanded himself and pulled himself back to regain his composure. He was gawking at everything like a child. He was a grown man and he needed to act like it to keep face up around these humans.

Sherlock Holmes followed the woman into a building (it was much cleaner and larger than the flat John had been in with the consulting detective) before she left and he went up a flight of stairs. John noticed various people loitering and checking out the rooms searching for evidence. Lights were flared up everywhere to create artificial lighting. John found he preferred his species' choice of lighting to these bright bulbs. A man met Sherlock Holmes at the top and his face was rather unpleasant to behold. Sherlock Holmes's wasn't much better. John didn't need to hear them talk to know how much they disliked each other.

"Twice in one day. God must hate me." The man said as a greeting. Sherlock Holmes didn't even look at the man as his eyes darted around the immediate area. He spun around one and then he said,

"Anderson. You smell nice." He stated in a way that didn't sound anything like a compliment. Anderson scrunched his face a bit in confusion.

"What?"

"I see you and Donovan share more than just a bed. Interesting." He moved away right after John caught the man's scandalized look. John's eyebrows rose a bit before his attention was caught on the body that lay in this new room. It was a female from the looks of the longer hair. A puddle of blood pooled out beneath her figure and John swallowed thickly at the scent of fresh blood. This woman hadn't been dead long. A single hole through the chest (_Bullet wound)_ was the stem of the blood flow. She was lying on her side with blank horrified eyes. Around the room there was some blood splatter on the wall and the room was a mess. Only one other person was in a room –a man with graying hair and tired eyes. He was gazing at the woman before they jumped to look at Sherlock Holmes's entrance.

"Here." The man said and handed Sherlock Holmes a pair of stretchy gloves. John rubbed his nose at the scent of them. Sherlock Holmes pulled them on as he looked down at the woman. "What happened to your hand?" He asked as he noticed the bandage around Sherlock Holmes's hand.

"Nothing of importance."

"How deep is it? Those bandages are already soaked." John caught a glimpse of the hand and saw that it was true. The white bandage was mostly a deep red. A small bubble of pride popped up within him at the thought that he had landed such a deep wound but a tiny part of him worried about it. It surely must be hurting the human. When Sherlock Holmes didn't respond to him the man sighed and said, "We're thinking it's the same man from earlier who killed her."

"Of course it is." Sherlock Holmes stated and moved towards the body before kneeling near her face. His eyes scanned over the body and he idly touched places with an amount of concentration. After a moment he pulled out the same glass from earlier that he had examined John's clothing with before he moved with purpose around her. John didn't like his position as he didn't receive many good advantages of the woman. He didn't like all of the movement. "It was a matter of time before he killed again."

"So soon, though?" The other man in the room asked.

"It was aggression. He wanted something from this woman…" He put away the glass before he moved around the room to examine everything. John took in the brutality of the wrecked room. Obviously a struggle had taken place. "Her gun. He wanted her gun."

"How do you know it wasn't his?"

"Because he didn't have one on him before, obviously." Sherlock Holmes turned to the man. "How long?"

"We got here less than thirty minutes ago. Neighbours heard gunshots and called the police. We had units nearby at the time because of you." The man crossed his arms and shifted his stance. "How did you know he'd be out here?"

"A shot in the dark; good one, though." Sherlock Holmes looked around.

John made a disgruntled noise in his throat as he once again missed his chance to get a good look at the body. Every bone in his body itched to examine her. He was a medical man and had helped the police of his world on various occasions to explain cause of death for people (whether of sickness or murder). Sherlock Holmes kept moving too much, though. The human moved over to the broken window and gazed out of it as the older man in the room said, "She's got a husband who wasn't home at the time and at work. We got in contact with him. That's him downstairs that you saw."

Sherlock Holmes didn't seem to be paying attention to him as he moved towards the bed and ran his fingers over it. "What's the matter, John?" He muttered softly.

John looked at him in surprise. "Shouldn't you be talking into that mobile? You'll look like a nutter talking to yourself." He spoke at his normal level of voice. He knew that Sherlock Holmes would be able to hear him but not the other man in the room.

"I talk to myself on cases; talking aloud helps me think. Now what's wrong?"

"The body. I want to see it but you're moving too fast." John admitted.

"Doctor?"

"Yes, actually." Sherlock Holmes broke out into a grin as pleased eyes met John's.

"Excellent." He spun around and faced the other man in the room. "Lestrade, give me some time alone." John's eyes focused on Lestrade. So this was the man from the alleyway earlier who was on good terms with Sherlock Holmes. He seemed much friendlier (at least his tone wasn't hostile) to the consulting detective.

"What? Why?" Lestrade's eyebrows furrowed. Sherlock Holmes dismissed him with an impatient wave. Lestrade's back stiffened –clearly offended- and looked as if he was going to say something before he frowned and shook his head. "Three minutes, Sherlock, and then I need what you got! Three minutes, alright?"

"Yes, _fine_." Sherlock Holmes said and John had the vague image of a petulant child being told to put their toys away. Lestrade left the room calling out something and closed the door. John didn't hesitate and grabbed onto the material of Sherlock Holmes's jacket and swung himself up onto the man's shoulder.

"I'm surprised you're letting me." He said as Sherlock kneeled and John allowed his eyes to roam around the body. Bruises –most half formed- were scattered around the woman's wrist and there was a cut on her left hand that bled. The scent of gunpowder lingered on her form but that could've been because she was shot.

John hopped onto Sherlock Holmes's knee before he jumped off. He walked around to avoid the woman's blood and lifted one of her fingers. It wasn't very stiff. Post-mortem lock hadn't kicked in very much. She couldn't be older than an hour or two. "Are you able to examine her correctly?" Sherlock Holmes asked.

"Physically our people are almost exactly alike –from what my people have studied. If there is anything different besides our heights than I'll be surprised." On the woman's other hand he noticed that there was gunpowder there. He glanced around the room before he rejoined Sherlock Holmes and hopped back onto his knee before grabbing onto the sleeve of his jacket and swinging himself up to walk up his arm to his shoulder. He scanned from his advantage to see if there was anything he missed. "I'm still surprised you're letting me, though."

"I'd rather work with you than Anderson." Sherlock Holmes said. His voice was kept low enough to not carry far. His gloved hand lifted one of the woman's hands –the one with the powder- before putting it back down.

"You two don't get on, I noticed."

"Do you make it a habit to point out the obvious? If so, you really should work on that." His eyes met John's. A silent warning with an undertone of annoyance.

John frowned. "Your snarky habit is about as lovely as my own." Amusement glittered in those eyes momentarily before John got back to the case. "The woman was clearly killed from the wound to her chest –bullet, it looks like- but the gunpowder on her fingers says that she had the gun first. She must have fought with the killer first and put up a good fight on top of it judging by the state of the room and her wounds. She's only been dead for an hour –two at most."

"Excellent for such petty details." Sherlock Holmes stood up and John glared at him before he heard footsteps approaching the room. He threw himself back into Sherlock Holmes's pocket right as the door opened and Lestrade walked in.

"Got anything?"

"Plenty. The killer was invited into the house judging by the fact that there is no sign of forced entry. This woman is related to him. I would say sister but he wouldn't kill his sister –he cares about his family too much- so I'm thinking an aunt or maybe family friend. He knew there would be a gun in the house and thought about using this place as a safe house until the nearby police passed by. He took the gun but the woman took it back saying he wasn't allowed to use it." Sherlock Holmes began to pace. "He fought back and she fired two shots –one hitting and one missing; that's his blood there by the window- but it didn't hurt him fatally. He cut her and took the gun before shooting her and escaping through the back room."

"Amazing!" John exclaimed under his breath. How had Sherlock Holmes acquired all of that information just from the scene? It was as if he knew exactly what went down.

The consulting detective rushed out of the room and into a new one with Lestrade following. "He can't have gone far. Check CCTV for any sign of him." He called as he crawled through the window and out onto the roof while looking around.

"Where do you think you're going, Sherlock?" Lestrade called out after him. Sherlock Holmes ignored him and moved down the roof to look at a tree. After a few moments he grabbed a branch and dropped down before dashing out of the backyard. "Sherlock!"

"Where are you going off to?" John called up at the man as the human dashed through the back alley.

"He most likely won't take a main road. He can't have gone far with his wound." He paused and looked around. His still-gloved hands pressed against a spot on the ground and came up with blood. "Fairly fresh. He's left a trail. So easy." He sighed with a hint of remorse before the excitement appeared back on his face and he dashed off again. Farther back John heard a few people alerted to the fact Sherlock Holmes had run off but he didn't hear anybody running after him. Sherlock Holmes moved effortlessly through the back alleys occasionally stopping to check the scattered droplets of blood. He muttered under his breath on occasion "East" or "Fresh" and on certain occasions, "This man could've been trampling through a forest with all of his ease".

"Are you used to tracking?" John asked when Sherlock Holmes paused for a time and thought.

"It's not tracking if they're obvious about it." Sherlock Holmes grunted a bit before he took some steps across the street. John stiffened as a car passed by quickly but the human didn't seem bothered by it. Instead he ran a few more steps.

"It isn't that obvious to me."

"That's because you're stupid." John huffed offended again and this time the human didn't say anything back. A few minutes passed before Sherlock Holmes suddenly stopped again but he didn't reach for anything. He glanced around his being. The alleyway they were in was small –Sherlock Holmes could touch both walls around them with his fingertips if he stretched out his arms. Litter was scattered around including a couple large boxes and those metal cans John had seen before. The walls were decorated with strange designs. Sherlock Holmes was moving more cautiously now with narrowed eyes as he entered deeper into the alley. John considered asking him what was up when he heard a scuffle from close behind.

"Behind you!" He cried and Sherlock Holmes jumped out of the way as he spun a knife barely missed him. In front of them now was the same man Sherlock Holmes had been chasing earlier that evening. His face was pale with blood loss and his shirt was wrapped around an arm wound. His arm was covered with blood which held a gun. His other hand was brandishing the knife towards Sherlock Holmes. His body trembled trying to support itself and it was clear to John that the knife hand wasn't the man's primary hand. He wasn't holding the knife correctly.

"G-Get back!" The man said and lashed out again. Sherlock Holmes dodged a second time and moved to hit the hand hard. The man cried out and the knife clattered to the ground. Sherlock Holmes made to go for it but the man pointed his gun. The knife was abandoned as the consulting detective ducked behind some metal cans. A bullet ricocheted off of the wall overhead.

"He'll attract the police this way." Sherlock Holmes muttered and leaned around the cans to look but ducked back again as another bullet flew by. "Violence, always violence."

John climbed out of the pocket of his jacket and onto his shoulder. "What are you going to do? You're unarmed."

"Wait it out, I suppose. Lestrade won't be far behind with all of these gunshots." A third bullet rang out and pierced the can, cutting through it and scraping Sherlock's ear. John barely had time to jump on top of the can before the detective went down for more protection.

"Damn!" John growled and looked over the short distance to where the cowering man was. Occasionally he saw a head pop up and at the end of the alley he noticed there were people gathering across the street. So far he hadn't been spotted. He looked to the other end of the alley and saw it was blocked off with a wall. How many bullets did human guns hold? Too much to wait out. Sherlock Holmes was injured and trapped. John couldn't sit around while he and this human were under attack –not when he could fight back.

"John!" Sherlock Holmes hissed as he noticed John preparing to jump. John didn't bother to look at him and ran before taking a flying leap towards the wall. Instinctively his hand wrapped his dagger's rope around it before he pulled the blade from its sheath and stabbed it into the wall. He didn't have a good shot. He needed to move closer. The thought occurred to him before he had even stopped moving so he spun around 360° on the hilt before throwing himself in the direction of the shooter. His blade effortlessly slid from the brick and John yanked the rope before grabbing the hilt and unclipping his gun from behind him. His light body allowed him to almost float as the momentum continued him into the air.

"What the fuck!" The human finally noticed him and aimed his gun at John as the tiny man reached his peak height. Self-defense kicked into high in John's body. His body flared with adrenaline as his mind fell into the ease of his training. He no longer thought about the blood that had already been lost by this man. He recalled Sherlock Holmes's presence behind him –watching him- but he sensed he was in no danger. John was in the killer's line of sight and John needed to protect himself. A bullet hit the brick above him and littered a bit of painful debris onto John's head but he paid no attention to it as he aimed his gun. He couldn't shoot him in the head –he didn't particularly want to kill the man- but he needed to take out the weapon. He inhaled slowly and took into account his descent before he shot at the shoulder.

The man cried out and his gun clattered to the ground as the force of the gunshot rocketed John farther up into the air. John saw the bullet go straight through the body before it disintegrated against the ground. He clicked his tongue once –he'd been hoping to recover the bullet- before he put his gun in the back of his pants and threw his dagger at the wall. It sliced through the brick like a knife through a leaf and stuck. The rope around his hand pulled taut to stop his fall before it snapped towards the blade like rubber. He gripped the handle of the dagger as he saw Sherlock Holmes dash out from his hiding spot and kicked the man's gun away from him. He held him down with his foot on his chest but it was clear the killer wasn't going anywhere. He was writhing with pain.

Sherlock Holmes glanced around before his eyes landed on John. He stared at him with an unfathomable look. So many emotions flashed behind those eyes but they disappeared just as quickly behind an apathetic mask. John found himself staring back down at Sherlock Holmes. He was a good meter above the man's head. His shoulder burned and his arms hurt from hanging as he was. Two gunshots in one day were taking its toll on his already-tired body. He needed sleep and a good meal and he needed this backpack off of him. Still despite all of this in mind John didn't take his eyes off of Sherlock Holmes. Some unknown silent conversation was going on between them that unfortunately only the human seemed to understand.

The killer stopped moving beneath Sherlock Holmes and John heard the squeal of some alarm nearby. It was coming closer. He flinched at the noise and hissed under his breath at the strain on his muscles. A faint throb of his leg reminded him of his earlier wounds. What was he thinking coming into this world? This was more action than he had seen on his worst days of training.

"John." Sherlock Holmes called and John realized that he had closed his eyes. He opened them and looked downward to see the human cupping his hands and holding them up. John didn't even think of second-guessing himself and pressed his feet to the wall to pull out his dagger before flipping downwards. He had sheathed his tool by the time his body his Sherlock Holmes's hands and he was cupped in them. His arms flooded their relief through him as the darkness of skin temporarily enclosed him before he was able to see again. He stood up as soon as he had the headspace to see Sherlock Holmes giving him an approving look. "Good shot."

"Yes, well," John shifted his position and put his arms around his back to stand with ease, "you were in danger."

"It wasn't necessary but what you did was…it was good, um great." Sherlock Holmes stared him meaningfully in the eyes again before the sirens arrived and John had to cover his ears. The high pitch and the sheer volume of the sirens could make his ears bleed. He quickly shut off his hearing. "Get into the pocket before Lestrade catches you." He felt the vibrations of the man's voice through the hand and took his time processing what he had said. He didn't get to finish but the pocket was offered to him and he knew what he was asked to do. He jumped in and ducked down. "Will you turn those things off? You'll wake the neighbourhood." He felt Sherlock Holmes call to someone. A few moments later the fast and high vibrations stopped echoing through them and John sighed in relief as he allowed his hearing back.

"Jesus, what happened here?" John heard Lestrade say and he poked his head out to watch.

"I was being shot at." Sherlock Holmes motioned with his head to the gun and knife. "Your men are as slow as always."

"What happened to him?"

"Stray bullet. Cramped space and all that; he couldn't avoid the ricochet." Lestrade gazed at Sherlock Holmes and his eyes narrowed slightly. The lie hadn't gone past him.

"You didn't shoot him?"

Sherlock Holmes rolled his eyes. "If you want proof you'll see my fingerprints are not on either weapon."

Lestrade sighed and ran a hand in the back of his hair. "Is he still alive?" He called to a woman kneeling next to him.

"He's gone, sir."

"Shit!"

"Most likely blood loss caused his heart to fail." Sherlock Holmes stated as he approached the body. "His arm was already bleeding quite a bit and then the shot to the shoulder took out too much blood." He stood up and put his arms around his back. "You can get my statement tomorrow, Detective Inspector."

"Yeah." Lestrade shook his head. "I'll be over in the morning." Sherlock Holmes nodded and escaped the scene. He moved quickly down the walkway and passed through the crowd of humans before he hailed a car.

"Hungry?" He asked as one of those black vehicles from earlier pulled up to the kerb.

"Starving." John admitted. He had barely eaten any of the food Sherlock Holmes had provided him earlier out of the knowledge he would be moving a lot. Food would weigh him down. John slipped off his backpack and lay back against the pocket's cloth. The barrier between John's back and Sherlock Holmes's chest was thin. The pounding of the human's heart was thicker than before and faster. The excitement of the day thrummed through the man's veins. John felt a grin poking at his lips. His own heart was nearly a flutter with how fast it was going. He shifted so that the lip of the pocket was open and he could look up. "I can eat what's in my pack, though."

"Save it. I'll order in and share." Sherlock Holmes stated.

"Alright. How's your ear?" The consulting detective blinked down at him and then touched his ear gingerly. He winced a bit.

"I'll be fine. It's stopped bleeding already."

"Your neck is covered with blood."

"I'll patch it up back at the flat."

"You're pretty reckless." John sighed as he relaxed and willed his muscles to uncurl from their tensed positions.

"I'm not the one who shot the man." John giggled before he hushed up. "He wasn't a good shot." Sherlock Holmes chuckled and John shifted to accommodate the bouncing chest. John laughed again before he hit the man's chest.

"Stop it; I'm not proud about killing him. Stop making me laugh!"

"It should have counted in your morals as 'self-defense'." He pointed out.

"It did." John agreed. His heart ached only slightly with guilt and a part of him was surprised that he didn't feel the pain of death. It then occurred to him that humans and his people didn't have that type of bond. Clearly humans did not have that concept. John itched to find out all of the differences between humans and his people.

_Humans_, he thought to himself, _are very unattached_. His eyes closed a bit as his stomach growled. They didn't seem to care about each other very much and there was no connection to their world. He considered it rather pitiful. Did humans care for each other at all? Sherlock Holmes certainly didn't seem to have any companions. John considered his own relationship with Sherlock Holmes. He wouldn't call them companions (it seemed rather idiotic to try) but they got on well enough. Well, as much as he could enjoy a cynical prick. Sharp movement jolted him from his dozing and he popped his head out to see that Sherlock Holmes had entered a building.

"Oh Sherlock!" John quickly hid himself back into the pocket as an older woman called as she noticed his entrance. "What happened to you?" She fretted and approached him while pulled out a handkerchief.

"Mrs. Hudson, I'm fine." Sherlock Holmes grabbed her wrist and brought it down. "It's just a small wound."

"Your hand too!" She huffed a bit and put her hands on her hips to give him a concerned but stern glare. "You really need to start taking better care of yourself." She waved her finger at him and then walked down the hall. "You'll never survive if you keep hurting yourself like this!"

"Some tea, if you have it!" Sherlock Holmes called and began up the stairs. John heard a faint "I'm your landlady, dear!" after them and smiled with some amusement. As soon as they were back in the flat John grabbed his backpack, climbed out of the pocket and onto the man's shoulder. He took a good look around him as they entered the cooking room and he hopped onto a nearby table. Around him were various glass containers with strange and colourful liquids inside of them. Bitter scents berated his nose and he swiped at it before turning to face the rest of the cooking room. Just like the sitting room it was a mess and didn't look very suitable to eat in. He took note of the large contraptions –he wondered what they all were- before deciding to watch as Sherlock Holmes talked on his mobile. After a few minutes he came back and sat down on a chair. John approached him.

"Who is Mrs. Hudson?"

"Landlady who owns the house. I rent it from her." Sherlock Holmes tapped away on the keys of his mobile before he grabbed one of the glass containers to swirl the liquid inside.

"You didn't make it yourself? She's not your mother, is she?" John backed away at a small splash of the liquid onto the table near him. He eyed it suspiciously as it hissed a bit. Sherlock Holmes replaced the glass container.

"No to both questions."

"You should really clean that blood up." He looked around and saw a paper square and grabbed it before bringing it to the human's hand.

"That won't work." Sherlock Holmes stood and left the room. John heard water running not far from him and glanced around. He wondered how late it was and wondered where he would be sleeping. He would be damned before he went back into the hamster cage. He doubted there was beds his size, though. He would need to gather materials to make his sleeping area. Sherlock Holmes reentered the room with the blood cleaned from his body and held out his hand to John.

"What?" John demanded and didn't climb on.

"Mrs. Hudson will be appearing soon." He explained and John gave an irritated sigh before he climbed on. He was getting tired of being carried around and wanted to use his own feet. Not a clekar after Sherlock Holmes moved the hand to a hidden position did Mrs. Hudson come in carrying a tray of tea.

"Here you are, dear. Are you sure you're alright?" She asked and lifted the side of Sherlock Holmes's hair to gaze at his ear. John could see a small portion –no bigger than John's hand- was missing from it. John frowned feeling unreasonably responsible for the injury.

"It's fine, Mrs. Hudson." Sherlock Holmes insisted. John blinked at the softer tones in the human's voice. Maybe there actually was someone he cared about? Not his mother then it must be a good companion. John felt cool relief flutter through his body knowing that Sherlock Holmes at least had someone who he cared about and who cared about it. It made the man seem more relatable.

"If you're sure. I'll just leave this with you. Bring the dishes down when you're done." She patted his shoulder and left the flat. Sherlock Holmes placed John back onto the table before pouring himself some tea and fixing it. The man flinched a bit as he tried to lift the larger pot with his injured hand and switched hands. John sighed.

"Sherlock Holmes." Sherlock Holmes continued to pour his drink into a cup.

"Call me Sherlock."

John gritted his teeth. "No." Sherlock Holmes's strange eyes regarded John as he sipped his drink. It was hot, he noted. "Let me see your drink."

"Why?" The human asked even as he placed the cup down. John dug into his backpack –he ignored the dried food even as his stomach growled in protest- and grabbed his thin container of medicine.

_Why am I wasting my limited medicine on him?_ Half of John questioned himself even as he undid the cork and poured a couple of drops into the drink. It should be enough to heal the wounds. He had half a container left. _I'll need to be more careful; at least until I've gone back to my world._ He noted. "There."

"That's the liquid that healed your leg earlier. What is it?" He picked up the tea to examine it. The colour had altered a bit –becoming a little bit more milky than it was before- but other than that looked untouched. John told him the actual name for it with a series of hisses and grunted when Sherlock Holmes gave him a confused look. He laughed knowing that his language was a lot softer than human-speak was.

"It's easier to just say it's medicine. Only warriors are allowed to have it when they come to this world. It's meant for emergencies." He explained. He motioned for him to drink and hesitantly Sherlock Holmes did. He coughed and quickly put the cup down to cover his mouth. "It burns a bit." John sympathized and the human tried to bite back the coughs only to do so again. John grinned in amusement and was shot a glare in response before it finally passed. "Better?"

"Are you sure that's not poisonous to my kind?" Sherlock Holmes asked as he began to unwrap his bad hand.

"Not particularly certain, no." He motioned to see the hand and Sherlock Holmes stared at it in fascination before he flipped it over. The wound was certainly deeper than John had thought it was but he could see the muscle stitching back together. Blood no longer seeped from it as vessels reattached. The hand then moved to touch the human's ear. John didn't need to see it to know that it was almost healed. "You'll need to finish the medicine. I don't want any of it wasted." Sherlock Holmes made a face at the thought and John laughed aloud.

* * *

**A/N: Just gonna end it here. This took far too long to type. Darn my easily-distracted mind. **

**Review please!**


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